


second hand

by clarion_call



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Marking, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Slight feminization, entirely in reference to, game mechanics but make it sensual, geralt's canonically huge tits, minor spoilers for the game, no care at all for timelines? It’s more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarion_call/pseuds/clarion_call
Summary: Jaskier so rarely sees Geralt wearing anything other than his standard black armor, but lately the Witcher keeps showing up in more and more alluring outfits (aka game mechanics and self-indulgent clothing porn in three vignettes)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 289
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. new moon

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out so much hornier and introspective then I intended, but I suppose we can blame that on 4+ months of quarantine. This fandom has been an absolute respite to all the recent madness, so this is my way of giving back. 
> 
> [My blog](https://thewinterbees.tumblr.com/tagged/fic-reference) will have images/links for the outfits discussed in each of the chapters

The first time Jaskier notices Geralt is wearing something other than his usual armor is in Oxenfurt. 

He’s just finished a rousing performance at the Alchemist and was treated to quite a few drinks by his adoring audience over the course of the evening, so he’s not at his most observant to begin with. He spills onto the street after his third encore, politely brushing away the hands of a few university students who keep looking at him through their lashes and asking him to tell them more about his craft, perhaps back at their dormitory? 

Gods, was he ever that young and obvious? Surely not. 

Either way, he’s old enough to know that what he wants right now is his own warm bed rather than a stranger’s warm body. That desire only grows as he heads towards the rooms he keeps near the university, the night seeming far colder and darker than it had a few hours previously. Squinting upwards, he realizes that there’s only a thin sliver of light behind a misty veil of clouds. New moon, he hums, playing with a melody in a minor key. Perfect for trysts and other secret deeds. 

Drunk or sober, Jaskier knows this city like the back of his hand, so he ducks through an alley behind a butcher’s shop to shave a few minutes off of his walk. He’s just managed to work out a catchy bridge for his new moon song when he finds himself faced with a knife and a cudgel halfway through his shortcut, the men attached to the weapons sneering at him in what appears to be their attempt at menacing. 

Sighing, he unties his coin purse from his belt and tosses it to the man with the knife

“Unfortunately, I’m quite used to city life so I don’t travel with much coin on me.” He has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing as his would-be assailant nearly stabs himself in the eyes as he fumbles to catch the purse thrown at him. “But you’re welcome to it.”

He watches as knife-man struggles to open his purse one-handedly while trying to still brandish the knife at him with the other. He peers inside and then looks up, face sour. 

“Barely anything here.”

His partner in crime, clearly the brains of the operation, peers at Jaskier critically and points to the strap across Jaskier’s chest with his wooden club.

“What’s that?” 

Not wanting to turn his back on these two, Jaskier tugs on the strap just enough that the neck of his lute is visible. “The instrument of my trade, as important as either of your weapons. My very livelihood, you might say.” 

“So worth a lot then?” The man with the cudgel clearly thinks himself very clever. Jaskier has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Hand it over.”

“And your hat.” Knife-man says, which earns him a glance from the other brute. “It’s got a feather. I want it.” 

Jaskier has to stop himself from groaning as the man wielding the club drags his eyes over his outfit appraisingly. 

“Good point. In fact, I’d say that doublet alone is worth a few dozen crowns, wouldn’t you.”

“Far less if it’s covered in blood,” Jaskier bites out, smile struggling to hang onto his face as he tries not to feel annoyed at the fact that this brute thinks his doublet is _only worth a few dozen crowns_.

The would-be thieves are so busy calculating what they can sell his boots for that they fail to notice a bit of shadow detach itself from the wall behind them. There’s a flash of steel and a few gurgles as the pair fall to the ground. Jaskier braces himself to try and convince yet another criminal to spare him when the shadow resolves itself into a familiar figure.

“Geralt, what fortuitous timing!”

The Witcher ignores his greeting and kneels down to rummage through the thieves’ clothing. He inspects various items he pulls from their pockets, tucking some away and discarding others. After a moment, he tosses Jaskier’s coin purse back to him and rises, holding out a bright red apple.

“Hungry?” 

There was a time when Jaskier would have been horrified at the idea of eating a dead man’s meal, but he’s spent quite a bit of his life on the road in the past few years, hungry and short of coin. He’s spent quite a bit of his life with Geralt. And he is feeling a bit peckish as the alcohol works its way through his system, so he smiles and holds out his hand. 

Geralt slices a neat wedge of fruit with the knife he took from one of Jaskier’s assailants and places it into his palm wordlessly. 

“What brings you to the town of my lovely alma mater and to my valiant rescue?”

“Had something to take care of at Borsodi’s.” Geralt crunches noisily into his own slice of fruit. “Heard you singing from a few blocks over and found you here.” 

Jaskier doesn't quite know what to do with the idea that his voice had lured Geralt from whatever Witcher-y business he was doing to come to his rescue, so he focuses on the other information provided instead.

“The auction house? Buying some rare artifact or painting, then?”

The Witcher chews and swallows. “Something like that.” 

Jaskier hums. Not something to make a tale of, then.

“You have somewhere to stay tonight?” 

Geralt cuts up the rest of the apple, offering half of it to him before discarding the core. “I stabled Roach outside of the city. Didn’t find an inn yet.” 

Jaskier takes the proffered fruit and crunches into it.

“You’re always welcome at mine.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he’s reminded of the students who clung to him at the Alchemist earlier this evening. Perhaps he is still quite young and obvious after all. 

Geralt looks at him then, attention fully on him for the first time tonight. When they’re apart, Jaskier forgets that it’s like this, the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. Even in the dim light, he sees Geralt’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow into slits. Jaskier patiently waits for his response, finishing off his fruit and trying not to feel pathetic. 

He sucks the tip of his forefinger into his mouth, chasing the sweetness the apple wedges left there. Geralt’s eyes drop for a split second.

“Still at the place across from the university?”

Jaskier nods and Geralt turns in that direction. 

They exit the alley into one of Oxenfurts’ well-lit thoroughfares, and it’s then that Jaskier realizes that Geralt isn’t in his usual armor. He’s still clad in all-black, but it’s not the studded leather he typically wears. 

It looks _soft_ \- his jerkin gleams, unwieldy pauldrons replaced by fashionable little cuffs at his shoulders and a jaunty pointed collar. Gloves that look to be made of the same supple leather are tucked into a matching belt tipped in silver and wrapped around Geralt’s waist. 

Below the jerkin is a long doublet so dark it seems to actively throw off the light, the skirt of which is lightly padded. Is that velvet? Suede? Jaskier has to keep his glances brief so that he doesn't plow headfirst into a streetlamp in his still slightly inebriated state, but he’s pretty sure that’s black velvet. He wants to touch it. 

Geralt must notice his scrutiny because he frowns slightly and rubs a palm over his chest. 

“My usual armor wasn’t suited for the job I just did.”

Jaskier tries to keep his voice light and casual, as though he doesn’t want to rub his face against Geralt’s sleeve like a cat. 

“Oh? And this was better?” 

He can’t resist reaching out and pinching a bit of the doublet’s skirt between two fingers. Definitely velvet. He rubs it a bit more before Geralt steps out of reach. Fearing he’s annoyed the Witcher, Jaskier pulls his hand back. But when he looks up, Geralt’s expression is less disgruntled and more confused.

“Stealth was necessary.” 

Jaskier gapes. 

“My dear, did you steal from Maximillian Borsodi?” He’s both horrified and terribly aroused by the thought. Only his Witcher could be simultaneously so dumb and so daring as to loot from one of the Continent’s most notorious robber barons. 

“It wasn’t my choice.” Geralt sets his jaw and quickens his pace, and Jaskier knows when to drop it. Well, the illicit activity part at least. 

“And I presume you came across your dashing new outfit in the same manner as you procured our midnight snack?” They’re nearing the rooms he keeps year-round in Oxenfurt, so he pats down his pockets for the key. 

“Something like that.”

“Well, job or not, I think it quite suits you.” He manages to get the key into the lock on his third try. “All black, how you like, just a bit more…inviting.”

“Inviting.” Geralt says, half question and half provocation. 

Jaskier throws a grin over his shoulder as he opens the door. “Very.” 

Geralt follows him inside and doesn’t seem a bit surprised when Jaskier swings the door shut behind them and pushes him back against it, hands tight against the Witcher’s waist. The leather of his jerkin feels just as buttery as Jaskier thought it would.

He presses close and brushes his nose against Geralt’s softly, confirming that this was what he was expecting when he accepted the invitation to stay with Jaskier tonight. Geralt closes the distance and slots their mouths together, slinging an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders to pull them even tighter together. 

It’s sweet, crisp apple lingering in both their lips. Tilting his head, he swipes the tip of his tongue into Geralt’s open mouth to chase the taste. Breaking apart with a contented sigh, Jaskier rubs against the lush velvet of Geralt’s sleeve next his cheek. 

When he opens his eyes, the Witcher is gazing at him with a look that Jaskier has come to recognize as fond, lips just barely quirked up and eyes soft. Grinning up at him, Jaskier presses their lips together once, twice more, then hooks a hand into that supple belt wrapped around Geralt’s waist and turns towards the stairs, hauls his lover along bodily behind him. 

When they get to his bedroom on the second floor, he shivers and gestures to the hearth. “Darling, would you?” 

Geralt snaps and a fire blazes to life instantly, flickering orange light and warmth flooding the room. Jaskier removes his lute and begins working on the buttons of his doublet. When he looks back at Geralt, he finds the Witcher inspecting his bookshelf, running a finger over a few volumes on the early history of Toussaint that he’d picked up from a traveling peddler a few weeks back. 

It’s strange – even in here, Geralt’s clothing seems to push away the light thrown by the fire, the outline of his body hazy up against the dark wood of the bookshelf. He wonders if some part of the armor is charmed to make people less attentive to the form beneath it, or perhaps to pull darkness towards it. 

“Your new get-up certainly does help you blend into the shadows, doesn’t it, pet.” 

Jaskier steps closer and runs a hand down Geralt’s back, if only to feel that sinfully soft leather again. He’s just about clutch at the luscious backside he knows is hidden beneath the velvet skirt of the doublet – perhaps the only detraction from this otherwise very fine garment - when Geralt turns, one pale brow arched. 

Hand now in the perfect position to unloop and remove the belt around the Witcher’s waist, Jaskier grins blithely and goes about doing that, pressing their lips together again. Geralt helps with the hidden latches on his jerkin while he sucks on his tongue, and together they strip him down to his doublet and trousers. Jaskier leans over to hang the jerkin and belt over the back of a chair. 

“Best not lose track of these, since I know how often you desire to free yourself of unwanted attention.” 

It comes out a bit more biting than he’d intended it, so he busies himself with pulling off his own boots and stockings. When he turns back, Geralt raises his chin and unlaces the front of the long doublet, letting it part to reveal that he’s not wearing anything beneath. 

Jaskier groans and takes that for the invitation it is, pressing close and skimming his hands along Geralt’s sides to push the garment open further, luxuriating in the feel of velvet and warm skin against his palms. He runs his tongue from jaw to collarbone, worrying his teeth on it as he thumbs over Geralt's nipples.

“Does the velvet feel good on your bare skin, darling? Against these?” 

Geralt sucks in a breath and rests his check against the crown of Jaskier’s head. “It’s soft.”

He can’t even begin to formulate a coherent response to that, so he just drops his mouth to lave at those tender buds with the flat of his tongue. Geralt’s hands come to cup the back of his skull when he opens his mouth to suck, soft but demanding. 

Dragging his mouth down Geralt’s sternum, Jaskier drops to his knees and does his best not to snap the laces on the man’s trousers as he unties them. He only pulls them down far enough to free Geralt’s cock, already heavy with blood, planting his hands firmly against those velvet-clad thighs. He can’t keep from rubbing them there, delighting in the feel of the lush fabric against his palms, all the more alluring because of the warm muscle beneath. 

Geralt diverts him from his tactile reverie by threading the fingers of one hand through Jaskier’s hair and tilting his face up. He opens his mouth to apologize for getting distracted – it’s just that Geralt and what’s he dressed in tonight are _so damn distracting_ – when the Witcher silences him by bringing the thumb of his other hand to rest on Jaskier’s lower lip, soft but firm. Geralt’s fingers curl underneath his chin, and Jaskier lets him push his lips open further so that his thumb can pop into his mouth. 

“Fuck, buttercup.” Geralt exhales shakily, the pad of his thumb pressing softly but inexorably down on Jaskier’s tongue, dropping his jaw open wide. “Should wear something fancy more often.”

Geralt rubs his thumb against Jaskier’s tongue, back and forth a few times, before Jaskier catches it in between his molars cheekily. Taking the hint, the Witcher pulls his thumb out of his mouth, letting it drag wetly down Jaskier’s lower lip and chin. 

Keeping one hand braced on Geralt’s thigh, partly for stability and partly to keep reveling in the feel of velvet, Jaskier tucks his other hand around Geralt’s cock at the base, pulling down the foreskin so that he can wrap his tongue around the crown. Hearing the wooden thunk of Geralt’s head hitting the wall above him, he drags his lips down one side of the length and then the other before opening his mouth wide, tongue soft, to suck as much as he can of it into his mouth. 

He’s ambitious but not stupid, so he fists the hand around the base of Geralt’s cock, lets it get slick with the motions of his mouth and jerks it in time. When he looks up, Geralt is running his fingers his own nipples. Of all the years they’ve known each other, Jaskier doesn't think he’s ever seen him this self-indulgent. It makes him dizzy. He feels half mad.

Their eyes catch and hold, and Jaskier shows off a little, pushes down until the head of the Geralt’s cock snugs into the hollow behind his soft palette, tongue working at the underside. Geralt lets out a low moan and pinches at his nipples, gaze fixed on him. 

Before long, Jaskier’s throat begins to protest so he pulls off. As soon as he does, Geralt hauls him up and pulls them both to the bed before falling face-first down onto it. He tugs his trousers down just far enough to expose the pale curves of his ass, the fabric stretched to its limit as he plants his elbows and knees wide. 

Jaskier pulls off his own trousers and chemise, and climbs onto the bed as well. He doesn’t have the facilities or coordination to prepare the Geralt properly, so he spreads open those ample cheeks with both hands and spits between them, slotting his prick there and pressing it down with his thumbs. He digs his fingers into firm muscle and thrusts his cock slowly through the warm channel he’s made, the lack of slick making the drag of it exquisite. After a few ruts, he watches as his prick drools clear and wet onto the small of Geralt’s back. 

Choking on nothing, he drags his eyes away to desperately try and not come immediately like some oversexed youth. The velvet doublet is still valiantly hanging on to the curves of Geralt’s shoulders and Jaskier can’t help but fall forward, rutting helplessly, forehead rubbing against that fine fabric. It feels divine, and he lets the motion of Geralt pulling himself off beneath them guide his jerky thrusts. 

“Does it feel good, pet?” Jaskier gasps helplessly, lips moving across Geralt’s velvet-clad shoulders. “Are you going to make yourself come?”

Groaning so deeply Jaskier can feel the reverberations of it beneath his cheek, Geralt trembles and then stills under him, chest heaving. Jaskier grits his teeth and thrusts a few more times, looking down to watch his cockhead catch on Geralt’s skin and then start to blurt come across the top of his ass and lower back. It catches and clings to the hem of the doublet, bright white against the dark velvet. 

Geralt collapses boneless onto the bed after a few more breaths, tired of holding up their weight, so Jaskier leans back and takes the initiative to properly remove his lover's trousers and stained doublet at long last. Wetting a cloth from the washbasin that he keeps near the fire, he dabs at the sullied velvet, frowning and wondering if he should leave the matter to more experienced hands. 

He wipes down his neck and chest, then goes to clean Geralt as best as he can. As the cloth dips between the cheeks of his ass, Geralt shifts, parting his massive thighs further and making Jaskier wish he were ten years younger. 

He doesn’t bother to change into clean sleeping clothes, just pulling on the chemise he discarded earlier, the tails of which are long enough to just protect his modesty. He pulls the sheet up around Geralt’s waist and climbs into bed beside him. 

“Plan to take part in many more heists, then?”

He runs a hand down the Witcher’s back, letting it linger there to feel his lungs work, in and out, so much slower than a normal man’s. After a few moments, Geralt cracks an eye open to look up at him, and Jaskier can’t help but grin. 

“Because if it’s my heart you’re after, you absconded with it long ago, my dear.” 

Geralt groans tiredly and attempts to smother him with one of his fine goose-down pillows. They tussle long enough that Jaskier considers going at it again, but the adrenaline and alcohol have finally worn off and he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. He settles down, pulling a stray feather from Geralt’s hair and tucking a few unruly strands behind the man’s ear. 

What a fine simile, he thinks groggily, hair as fine as down, but he falls asleep before he can find a rhyme for it.

***

Geralt is gone when Jaskier wakes the next day, which isn’t particularly unexpected. But the velvet doublet and trousers folded neatly at the foot of his bed are. They’re wrapped tidily with that soft belt, the matching gloves tucked into the bundle as well. The leather jerkin and boots are where he left them last night, gleaming softly in the morning light.

Recalling their discussion last night about the benefits of this particular outfit, Jaskier isn’t quite sure what to do with this offering that’s been given to him. There must be some meaning behind it, because Geralt doesn't do anything thoughtlessly, much less leave behind a valuable set of armor. 

Whatever the reason, Jaskier can’t help but note that the doublet has been folded in a manner that hides the stain he left on it. He resolves to get the whole thing cleaned and safely tucked away, ready for when he and Geralt cross paths next.


	2. cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is the main one that has spoilers for a side quest in the game, so be careful!

Jaskier is headed south towards Cidaris when he spies Roach hitched to the post outside of the Seven Cats inn, which has less to do with his ability to distinguish between horses and more with the monster head lashed to her saddle that looks like a terrible mix between a chicken and a lizard. He hadn’t planned to stop on his way out of Novigrad but the summer heat is nearly unbearable this afternoon, so he can forgive himself a small delay. 

He gives a little bow to Roach on the way inside, because his mother raised him to greet his colleagues properly but he knows better than to try and pat the mare when he’s not armed with some sweet bribe to stay her jaws. Wandering inside, he waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the tavern, sweeping over its various inhabitants before he finds that familiar silhouette standing at the bar. As he draws closer, he sees the Witcher is again garbed in an alluring but unfamiliar outfit, and pauses to take it in.

It’s very different from anything he’s ever seen Geralt in the entire time he’s known him. Very little black, for starters, replaced by what looks like a deep indigo, at least in the murky interior. A hardened-leather jerkin and matching trousers, slim knee-high boots and fingerless gloves underneath studded bracers - all of them skin-tight and sleek. They like they would stretch as far as needed when Geralt lunged or rolled away from an adversary. 

But it’s the sleeves or lack thereof that really draw the eye. Under that dark blue jerkin is a simple white shirt, the sleeves of which have been cropped and rolled up to the shoulder, revealing the Witcher’s massive upper arms, his pale skin a lovely map of muscle and past encounters that he’d survived. 

Jaskier is so rarely treated to the sight of any part of his Witcher bare outside of bedrooms and baths. He only realizes that his heartrate has picked up, cheeks warm, when Geralt turns his head over his shoulder and glances directly at him, his preternatural senses somehow keyed in to Jaskier’s untoward thoughts. He grins back at him, unrepentant, and saunters over to the counter beside him. 

“What’s your poison, my dear, vodka or rye?”

Digging a few crowns out of his purse, he props his forearms on the bar and leans over to take everything in from this new angle. Geralt’s arms are still just as obscene from his new vantage point, and he’s delighted to see the trousers truly hug every curve of the Witcher’s front- and backsides. 

“I presume from that grisly mess strapped to Roach outside that you’re done working for the day.”

Geralt grunts in the affirmative as the the barkeep turns and plops a truly disgusting looking stew down on the counter. It slops over the sides of the rough-hewn bowl, viscous and slimy. 

Jaskier barely restrains a shudder. “Rye, good sir.” The server nods at him and ducks under the counter. 

“If you intend to drink with me, buttercup, get a couple of bottles.” Geralt speaks over his shoulder, taking his dubious meal over to a table in the corner. 

“You heard the man.” Jaskier puts down more coin. “And two glasses, if you please.”

Bounty in hand, he heads over to join the Witcher, throwing a leg over the bench opposite him and giving the glasses he’d received a cursory wipe with the cuff of his chemise out of habit. Geralt cracks the seal on a bottle and takes a long swig directly from it, then pours a few fingers into each glass.

“That kind of a day, I see.” Jaskier snags one of the glasses and clinks it against the other before taking a large sip. It’s decent enough, slightly sweet to balance out the burn of the whiskey. 

“That kind of month.” Geralt drains his glass and then starts in on his slop. 

Jaskier watches him in a kind of disgusted fascination. He’s seen the man quaff down raw meat and all manner of fungi. He knows the mutations do something to his digestive system to make it hearty, but he’s still amazed at what the Witcher can get away with putting in his body. 

“So, what manner of beast is that outside? Never seen anything quite like it.” Jaskier tops off Geralt’s glass while he scrapes the bowl clean. 

“Basilisk. Brood mother was doing away with cattle by the dozen, had to fight her and a few juveniles in the hills east of here.” This is familiar territory – Jaskier asking for a story and Geralt giving him the barest bones of it, devoid of any drama or romanticism.

Recalling their conversation last fall in Oxenfurt, Jaskier props his chin on his palm of one hand while the other gestures towards the Witcher’s chest. 

“So are you wearing that because it helps fight basilisks?”

Geralt grimaces and knocks back more rye.

“Basilisks spit venom that can melt away leather and plate. Half destroyed my armor during the fight, so I needed something else to wear for the time being.” He runs his knuckles over the buckles of the indigo jerkin. “Had this on hand.”

“Well then, I must thank the basilisk.” Jaskier reaches his free hand out, runs the tip of his pointer finger down Geralt’s bare bicep. “Thanks to it, I got to see you looking quite fetching.” 

Rather than having the intended effect, his words seem to sour Geralt’s mood further. His mouth twists and he picks up the open bottle of rye, draining the remaining third of it in a few long gulps. Letting it drop to the table with a clunk, he levels Jaskier with an inscrutable look, eyes glinting golden in the dim interior. 

“My room upstairs is paid until tomorrow morning.” Without waiting for his reply, Geralt grabs the unopened bottle of whiskey by the neck and levers himself up. If the liquor is affecting him at all, he isn’t showing it as he turns and begins climbing the stairs. 

Not quite certain what he’s missing but not about to pass up the opportunity, Jaskier snags both glasses in one hand, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and follows. Geralt has taken off his swords and bracers by the time he enters the room, safely placing the whiskey on a little table by the bed. Jaskier drops the glasses there as well, then then starts to pull off his boots and doublet, already unlaced because of the summer heat. As soon as he does, Geralt stalks over and pushes him up against the door, pulling his chemise to one side roughly and biting at the join of his shoulder and neck. 

He digs his teeth in and doesn't let up, mouth sliding up his neck to press a bruise into the tendons there as well. Jaskier groans and lets his head loll to one side, catching a hand in Geralt’s hair and pulling lightly.

“We don’t all have your ability to recover from a bruise in a few moments, pet, would you –“

Geralt doesn’t let him finish his plea, just wraps his arms around him tightly, hands sliding down to his ass before grasping at the backs of his thighs. Jaskier nearly chokes as he watches those beguiling arms flex and bulge, lifting him bodily _up_. He’s not small, and anyone with that impression tends to get it when he’s standing next to Geralt, who really isn’t a good frame of reference for most matters. Thus the ease with which the Witcher picks him up is both terribly impressive and terribly arousing. 

He throws his free arm around Geralt’s shoulders for balance and hooks his legs around his hips, letting him feel what his obscene display of brawn has done to him. Once he settles, Geralt goes back to mauling his collarbones, biting through the fabric of his chemise when he can’t pull it down enough to bare skin. 

Jaskier’s had plenty of rough tumbles in his life - many of them with Geralt - but he gets the distinct sense that this fervor has very little to do with him personally and far more to do with whatever has Geralt all worked up. He lets him suck a few more bruises under his jaw, then gets a firmer hold on Geralt’s scalp, pulling meanly until he unlatches from Jaskier's throat. 

He keeps up the pressure on that moon-white hair until Geralt looks up at him.

“I’m not a beast to vanquish, darling.” Jaskier runs his other hand slowly but firmly from Geralt’s shoulder to his forearm, a grounding touch. “If you want me, you have me.” 

Geralt’s eyes widen minutely and he looks down to the mess he’s made of Jaskier’s neck and shoulders, mouth drawing into a tight line. He drops his head wordlessly and begins to soothe over the marks he’s left with his mouth. Jaskier accepts it for the apology it’s meant to be, but doesn’t remove his hold on the Witcher's hair. 

When Geralt has mapped out every bruise with his lips and tongue, Jaskier tugs again, forcing his face up and holding him still so that he can press close. He moves slow, laying kisses on the arch of Geralt’s cheekbone, the corner of his jaw, his scarred eyebrow. Geralt’s eyes slip closed as Jaskier brushes his nose over his temple and it’s only then that he finally brings their mouth together chastely.

He stays there, just sharing breath for a moment, before he swipes at the seam of Geralt’s lips with the tip of his tongue. The Witcher obliges him, opening his mouth and letting Jaskier curl his tongue inside softly. When he kisses back gently, Jaskier lets him. As soon as he feels teeth, he pulls cruelly at Geralt’s hair, harder than he would with any of his other bed partners. He gentles the man like he would an unruly kitten, hand on its scruff until it begins to realize what behavior is acceptable and what isn’t. 

As they kiss, Jaskier rubs his other hand up and down one of Geralt’s arms, motion slow and predictable. He realizes after some time that a fine trembling has started up in the man’s bicep and shoulder. Perhaps the fatigue of his past few jobs is finally catching up to him, or maybe it’s simply that they’ve reached the limits of the Witcher’s brute strength. He has been holding Jaskier up for quite some time, after all, solid and unmoving. 

With a final sweep of his tongue across Geralt’s lower lip, Jaskier pulls away. Although he can feel the quivering of the man’s muscles against his palm, Geralt’s face shows no strain. In fact he can’t even seem to open his eyes fully, lids at half-mast and pupils dark. He looks docile and content. Jaskier smiles at him warmly and untangles his hand from Geralt’s hair. There are a dozen or so white strands wrapped around his fingers that shimmer in late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows of the room.

He leans in again to press their cheeks together, allows his lips to catch on the lobe of Geralt’s ear as he speaks low. “My dear, take me to bed.”

Geralt grunts in assent, scruff catching pleasantly against the side of Jaskier’s face. Rather than putting him down, the Witcher turns, hands still tight under Jaskier’s thighs, and carries them both over to the bed, tipping the brunette onto it carefully. Jaskier grins up at him as he wriggles out of his chemise and trousers, chest feeling warm in a way that has nothing to do with the summer heat. 

“As much as I’m enjoying the view, I’d very much like to see more than just your arms bared.”

He watches as Geralt steps back and unlatches the buckles across the front of his jerkin, shrugging it off and raising a brow. 

“Are you this enthusiastic about everyone wearing light armor? 

“Well, if they look nearly as alluring as you do in it, pet.” 

Geralt shakes his head, hint of a smile on his lips as he peels himself out of those sinfully tight blue and brown trousers. It’s done perfunctorily and without an ounce of seduction, but gods, does it make Jaskier’s skin prickle with excitement. 

He can’t stop himself from whistling through his teeth appreciatively when the Witcher turns and bends over to dig through his pack for a familiar glass bottle, lovely ass on full display. That earns him an arch look as Geralt returns to the bed and plants one knee on it, then whips off the sleeveless white shirt that had set Jaskier’s blood pounding the moment he laid eyes on the Witcher earlier today. 

Following the drag of Geralt’s gaze down his body, Jaskier takes the initiative and tucks one of his arms behind a knee, pulling it up to his chest. His lover groans at that, a rumble low in his chest, and drops his upper body onto the bed, licking a long stipe from Jaskier’s hole to the base of his cock. He nuzzles there, breath hot, mouthing at Jaskier’s sack while he brings a few oiled fingers to pet at his hole. 

“That feels lovely, darling, keep going.” Jaskier sighs and runs his free hand over Geralt’s head gently, urging him on and trying to sooth away any pain he may have left there earlier.

He lets out a long breath when Geralt presses two fingers into him, then shouts as he pushes firmly against the spot inside him that makes his cock jerk and spit out clear spend. Looking down, Jaskier nearly comes from the sight of Geralt leaning over to lap it up, tongue lingering over exposed head of his prick. He can see the motion of Geralt’s shoulder as he jerks himself, oil glistening on his knuckles. 

He grits his teeth as Geralt spreads his fingers inside of him and adds a third. “Fuck, if you don’t put your cock in me now – “

Geralt doesn’t let him finish. He pulls his fingers out, replacing them with the tip of his dick, lets it catch on Jaskier’s rim and pop in. They both still, breathing for a moment, letting the sensations catch up with them. Jaskier drops his knee from his chest and lets both of his legs hook over Geralt’s hips, pelvis titled up in a way that makes the slide easy when Geralt begins to press unerringly in. 

Bracing himself on the mattress beside Jaskier’s head, Geralt blankets him, eyes closed as he starts to work his hips. Jaskier raises his hands, lets them span the broad expanse of Geralt’s cheeks and jaw, fingers curling around his ears as he brings their lips together again. There’s little finesse to it, mostly rubbing their tongues together and breathing into each other’s mouths while Geralt finds a perfect little rhythm. 

Doing his best to keep his eyes open, Jaskier watches as Geralt’s brow begins to furrow helplessly after a few moments, lips curling in a kind of snarl as his hips hunch into him in a tight grind. Jaskier drops one hand to palm himself, thumb and forefinger curling into a tight ring that he works over the head of his prick dirty and quick, but it’s the feel of Geralt’s cock flexing and coming inside him that knocks him over the edge with a choked gasp. Geralt groans low and long as he feels Jaskier’s insides contract and release around him, giving a few more jerky ruts as he works through the rest of his climax. 

Sucking in air through his nose and mouth, body thrumming, Jaskier can’t help but laugh when Geralt falls onto his chest limply like a puppet whose strings have been cut. He kisses at the man’s cheek, then his ear as he rubs his face against Jaskier’s neck and collarbone like a cat. When his chin presses against one of the bruises he left there earlier, Jaskier tries not to flinch, but must do a poor job of it because Geralt pushes himself up and away. 

He frowns a bit when he takes stock of the red and purple bruising across Jaskier’s chest, but then his gaze drops further. He leans back on his heels and Jaskier pinks up when he realizes that Geralt’s looking down to where they’re joined. He keeps staring intently as he draws himself out of Jaskier slowly, the head of his prick followed by a spill of wetness. 

Jaskier kicks at his thigh with the heel of his foot. “If you might cease your wonderment at your own virility and fetch a rag to help clean up the mess you made?” 

Those golden eyes track up his body, lips quirking into the barest hint of a smile. 

“Wasn’t the only one that made a mess, buttercup.” 

Bending forward, Geralt opens his mouth and laps at Jaskier’s stomach and chest. He feels lightheaded as his body desperately tried to get hard again far too soon, stomach lurching with the intensity of it as he feels Geralt’s wet mouth drag across his skin. 

After catching up most of the spend with his tongue, Geralt rises, stumbling a little bit on the way to the basin and cursing. Perhaps the alcohol from earlier has finally caught up him, but Jaskier would really like to think that he managed to get the Witcher equally as come drunk as he feels right now. 

Geralt returns to the bed with a damp cloth and something he grabbed from his pack. He wipes down Jaskier’s chest and between his thighs, thumbing at his hole to make sure he’s not too tender. Jaskier frowns down at him when it ends up causing more of Geralt’s spend to leak from him. Geralt watches it for a moment, unrepentant, then wipes it up with a sly glance towards Jaskier. 

“Hold still.” The Witcher pulls the cover off of a small pot, dipping into it before spreading it across the marks on Jaskier’s neck and chest, scarred fingers gentle on his bruised skin. 

It feels cool and quiets the gentle throbbing that he’d started to feel there as the rush of sex wore off. Given their activities immediately prior, it shouldn’t feel as strangely intimate as it does. Jaskier can’t help but shiver and grab at Geralt’s hand as he pulls away, meeting his eyes and pressing a kiss to the back of it in thanks. 

Sitting up, Jaskier props himself against the headboard and stretches. The marks twinge idly as he moves, but the sharp pain of them is dulled by whatever Witcher poultice Geralt applied. He reaches over to where they’d left the remaining bottle of rye and their glasses from earlier.

“I don’t suppose you have anything to eat, pet?” Cracking the seal on the bottle, he pours himself a glass. “I don’t really want to risk the kitchen downstairs after seeing what they gave you.” 

Recapping the ointment and returning to his pack, Geralt rustles through it and pulls out some preserved meats and cheeses, as well as a pouch of what turns out to be dried fruit and nuts. He puts them on the table next to the whiskey, then lays down lower on the bed, resting his head on Jaskier’s naked thigh and closing his eyes. 

Jaskier takes a few sips of his drink, enjoying the burn of it down his throat, further soothing the ache of the bruises rising under his skin. 

“Would you like more rye, pet?”

The Witcher’s eye slit open, and he nods. Jaskier feels terribly accommodating, so instead of handing him a glass he takes a swig from the bottle and bends down to kiss it into Geralt’s mouth. He keeps feeding mouthfuls of whiskey to him, Geralt chasing the taste from his tongue, until Jaskier’s stomach rumbles. 

They eat in silence, with him handing down bits of cheese and fruit to Geralt now and then. 

Jaskier doesn't have any delusions about fully knowing Geralt’s mind, but he’s gotten very good at understanding when the Witcher needs something in particular, or when he wants to discuss something but isn’t sure how to go about starting the conversation. Gods know they’ve had enough awful encounters where they each managed to confuse the other’s intentions entirely. But lately they both seem to be doing better at meeting each other halfway, at trying to recognize the thoughts behind their actions. 

It’s mostly because of their more recent mutual understanding that Jaskier felt what Geralt needed today wasn’t an animalistic coupling - as exciting as those may be - but something a bit softer. The way the man is curled on his lap now has assured Jaskier that he assumed correctly. 

They work through most of the provisions before Geralt speaks, Jaskier happy to drink and eat and wait while Geralt figures out what he wants to say and how to say it. 

“What I was had on earlier, it’s the armor that Cats usually wear.” 

Geralt rolls onto his back, head still pillowed on Jaskier’s thigh as he scowls up at the ceiling of the inn. Gently, Jaskier places a palm on the Witcher’s sternum, feeling the need to touch him suddenly.

“And did you come by it in the usual manner?”

Geralt’s chest stutters under his hand, brow creased. “More or less. Found a contract a few weeks ago in Velen. By the time I got there the problem had been taken care of, but the village had been slaughtered, save for a little girl.”

Jaskier doesn’t speak, runs his fingers over the pale hair on his lover's chest in small circles, fingers brushing his medallion. After another couple of breaths, Geralt opens his mouth again.

“Turns out a Witcher from the school of the Cat had shown up before I did. But the villagers didn’t want to pay him, so they tried to murder him after he did the job.” 

Geralt drops his hand to cover Jaskier’s on his chest, the silver of the wolf’s head warm glinting between their fingers. “He expected I’d try to do the same as the villagers when I tracked him down, and when I didn’t he gave me his spare armor and some other materials as thanks.”

Jaskier brings his other hand to Geralt’s forehead, thumbs over the crease between his brows. 

“Why did he think you’d want to kill him too? If anyone could understand what happened, it would be you.”

“Cats have a reputation. They generally think it pays better to take contracts on men than on monsters, so even other Witchers tend to distrust him.” 

Jaskier frowns. He’d like to think he’s a relative expert on Geralt and his kin, but these sorts of things still elude his knowledge entirely. “I’d heard about the sacking of Stygga but I didn’t realize they’d been ostracized by the other schools as well as all the kingdoms of the North.” 

“I’ve known as many bad Cats as I’ve known bad Wolves and Vipers. And just an many good ones.” Geralt rolls back onto his side, but doesn't dislodge Jaskier’s hands on him. “There’s too few of us left to murder each other on sight.”

Garroter, jury, and judge, Jaskier thinks, brushing away Geralt’s hair where it falls into his face. They’ve worked themselves through another half of a bottle of rye, and the sun had only just begun to dip under the horizon outside. He can only imagine what thoughts have been flitting across Geralt’s mind since he left that village. If he had arrived first, would he have done the same as the Cat when faced with the greed of the villagers? Had he made the right choice in sparing his fellow Witcher, regardless of the slaughter? 

“And the girl?” 

Geralt closes his eyes at Jaskier’s question, looking very tired all of a sudden. 

“Brought her to relatives in a nearby hamlet. Bribed them with plenty of coin and the threat that I’d be back if they didn’t look after her properly.

Bending over, Jaskier brushes his mouth over Geralt’s forehead softly, then both of his eyelids, before sitting back against the headboard with a sigh. 

“It sounds like enough people died that day. Killing another wouldn't undo the slaughter or the poor decisions that led to it.” 

Geralt doesn’t respond, just drowses on his lap while Jaskier polishes off the rest of the food and watches the sun set outside. He’s nearly dozed off himself when Geralt stirs and rubs his stubbled cheek across Jaskier’s thigh, glancing up at him, eyes still half-lidded. He brushes his nose across the crease of Jaskier’s hip with intent, mouth open and breath warm against his skin. Jaskier can only groan helplessly, any thought of retiring early tonight dissipating with the feel of Geralt’s lips on his soft cock.

***

Both headed south for the time being, the two of them travel together for another fortnight after leaving the inn at Seven Cats. Geralt tends to the bruises on Jaskier’s neck and shoulders until they fade, pressing kisses there with only a hint of teeth as they pale to green and yellow.

They agree on a small detour to Crow’s Perch, Jaskier making good coin playing for the Baron and his men while the Witcher gets his usual armor repaired there. Geralt sheds the sleeveless garb from the School of the Cat for the time being, but doesn’t sell it or give it to Jaskier. 

He explains that it’s light enough for him to carry in his pack for now, and useful to have on hand in case his main armor gets compromised again or he needs a bit more agility. Jaskier would like to think it might be a comfort, that Geralt can carry something of his brothers – however estranged they might be – with him wherever he goes.


	3. ornate robe

Jaskier is hired for a wedding in the eastern Gustfields for a pittance, but it’s early summer and that part of the countryside is gorgeous this time of year. Plus the young groom-to-be came to Oxenfurt to plead his case in person, earnest and so in love, and Jaskier is nothing if not a romantic. There will be ale and mead and various entertainments, as well as a local band to pick up the slack when he wants to carouse a bit himself, so he packs up for a long journey and sets out. 

The stage is set up in a barn next to a lake, its former residents put out to pasture a month ago when the weather turned warm. It’s been well mucked and aired, and the residents of the town have all pitched in to decorate it. Mismatched chairs, tables, and benches fill the large room, and the various cow stalls have had all their doors thrown open to create cozy little spaces for people to sit and drink. Bedlinens and dried flowers hang from the rafters, and the whole interior is filled with the golden light of candles. It’s charming and cheerful, and Jaskier can’t wait for the festivities to start. 

He plays a few sing-alongs for the children and adults who begin to gather at sunset while they wait for the happy couple to finish up their ceremony at the alderman’s house, then guides the local band in a jaunty ditty once the couple and their families appear over the crest of the hill. During the speeches from fathers and uncles, he goes in search of food to tide him over for the next few hours, then checks over his supply of spare lute strings.

Soon enough the bride’s mother pulls her husband off the table where he’s been pontificating on marriage for a good half hour and gestures desperately at Jaskier with an exasperated expression. He strikes up a celebratory tune with a nice call-and-response bit that should get the crowd ready to revel. Time goes strange as it always does when he’s performing, hyper-aware of his fingers and voice while his attention hazily flits over the crowd, figuring out what kinds of songs will get the burly farmers up and dancing. 

Jaskier’s nearing the end of his first set when Geralt steps into the barn, and his mind suddenly goes sharp again as he tracks the Witcher from across the room. 

It’s not simply the sudden appearance of the man that nearly makes Jaskier snap a string on his lute, but also what he’s wearing, or perhaps more aptly, _how_ he’s wearing it. Geralt’s wrapped in a long robe, wine-red with black and gold accents that only serve to accentuate the Witcher’s pale skin and hair. Fine fabric stretches across his torso and falls below his knees, secured around his waist by a few gilded buttons and a wide sash. But as elegant as the garment may be, the top and bottom of it gape open in a way that’s nigh indecent, baring Geralt’s chest nearly down to his navel. 

Meeting Jaskier’s gaze, Geralt leans back against one of the walls of the barn and the fabric of the robe parts around one of his thighs, showing off the tight trousers the Witcher tends to prefer. Then he crosses his arms and Jaskier flubs a couple of notes as the naked muscles of Geralt’s chest bunch and gather, buxom as any lass here tonight. 

Swallowing, Jaskier decides that his voice needs a rest anyway, so he finishes his song and steps down off the stage with a bow. He congratulates the young couple once again, then accepts praise and some ale from a few of his adoring fans, doing his best to look charming and nonchalant and not at all like he desperately wants to run over and bury his face in Geralt’s fantastic tits. 

He catches more detail on Geralt’s outfit as he strolls towards him, picking up another tankard along the way. He sees that there’s a light chemise visible under the red fabric of Geralt’s robe, but it’s also gaping open across the Witcher’s chest, the ties meant to secure the top of it hanging loose against the robe’s embroidered collar. It’s a style Jaskier himself tends to favor in the summer months when he’s tromping about the countryside, but seeing it on the Witcher is something else entirely. 

He wonders if this is the manner in which the garment is meant to be worn, or whether Geralt had to improvise because the sheer breadth of his chest wouldn’t permit the top half to fasten properly. Jaskier would bet every crown he has on him right now that it’s the latter, particularly given the knowledge that Geralt likely came across the outfit second-hand in some manner. 

Jaskier finally steps close to his dear friend and does his best to greet him normally, offering him one of the mugs of ale.

“Geralt, darling, how lovely it is to see you.” He smiles, pleased with his composure. “Pray tell, why do you have your tits out at a wedding?”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth tick up as he accepts the drink and takes a long sip, throat bobbing. 

“Did a job for the alderman these past few days, he invited me.” 

It’s only half an answer, and Jaskier doesn’t let himself get distracted as his eyes track from Geralt’s throat down to his chest, catching there once again as candlelight glints off ample muscle and fine chest hair. 

“And is there any particular reason why you’re dressed like a charming rogue?” 

Geralt shrugs and brushes a broad hand across the sash of his robe. “Had it on hand. I have yet to be told I look like a sad silk trader.” 

Jaskier tries to scowl, but the look Geralt gives him is so slyly pleased that he can’t bring himself to be truly disgruntled. Instead he drains the rest of his ale, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth roughly. 

“That was one time, Geralt. And I learned the error of my ways – above anyone else, I trust a Witcher to know how to prepare for any event, be it an exorcism or a wedding.”

“Or both.” 

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “If that’s true, you must tell me about it later.” Just think of the parallels – life and death, love and longing, all tied up into one event. 

Rather than answering, Geralt snags Jaskier’s empty mug and pushes away from the wall to go find a refill for them both. The warmth of the barn has caused him to push the sleeves of the robe up above his elbows, and the flex of his forearms as he pours ale from a large pitcher at a nearby table is so obscene that Jaskier falls back against the wall with a defeated groan. 

Geralt takes a roundabout way back, stopping by a group a halflings playing gwent. Fully expecting to lose him to the game for a while, Jaskier is pleased when he returns a few minutes later to lean back against the wall next to him, shoulders and thighs pressed together along one side. He holds out one of the mugs and Jaskier takes it, knocking it against Geralt’s good naturedly. 

They drink in silence for a moment. The local band is quite good, their enthusiasm making up for any lack of finesse, and they’ve managed to get a large portion of the guests dancing. Jaskier should get back on the stage soon, but for the moment he lets himself enjoy the party and the company of the man beside him. 

Geralt clears his throat. “Triss, Yen, they’re always making me spend money on fancy clothes to go to parties.” 

Jaskier takes a sip of ale to keep from reflexively biting out a sneering retort to that. He loves those women dearly, but truly hates to see them jerking Geralt around like he owes them somehow.

He turns towards Geralt, giving him an obvious once over. 

“As you’re aware, my standards for fashion are quite exacting, and I personally can’t imagine any other outfit that would suit you as well as what you’re wearing right now.”

Geralt’s eyes slant over towards him, brows raising. Jaskier wants to make sure that he knows he isn’t teasing him. 

“Trust me, darling, it looks good.” This close, he can see that the wine-red fabric is sturdy but thin enough to drape nicely across Geralt’s broad shoulders and thighs, displaying the musculature beneath. There’s gold thread running through the details at the cuff and collar and sash, and it might be the candlelight in here, but it seems to match the Witcher’s eyes perfectly. “ _You_ look good.” 

Jaskier doesn’t feel any need to be coy, so lets his eyes drop and linger. There’s an old scar that cuts diagonally across the exposed skin of Geralt’s chest, disappearing beneath his medallion. Surely Jaskier has traced that line with his tongue many times before, but he desperately feels the need to do it again now. 

Geralt, as he so often does, catches onto his thoughts before Jaskier can even being put them into words. “Alderman’s letting me stay in a little cottage on the eastern shore of the lake tonight. It’s not far.”

Jaskier frowns and turns back to the stage. 

“I’m expected to play until midnight.” With his reputation, he wouldn't suffer if he ditched the job now, but the mood of the party is so nice he doesn’t want to spoil it. 

“I’ll wait.” Geralt drains his tankard, presses his shoulder even tighter against Jaskier. “Come find me by the lake when you’re done.”

Thoroughly charmed, Jaskier can’t stop from leaning in and brushing a warm kiss to the side of Geralt’s mouth, catching a drop of ale that escaped the man’s lips. Pushing away from the wall, he runs the back of his fingers down the front of Geralt’s chest, catching on fine linen and gold-wrapped thread, then brushing against skin. He taps the nose of the wolf’s head medallion cheekily, and backs away before he gives into the urge to just tumble Geralt in the loft of the barn. 

When he returns to the stage, Geralt’s eyes are molten bright, glinting at him from across the room. 

He plays another dozen songs, far bawdier than his previous set. All of the village children have been put to bed by now, and his mind is full of visions of Geralt awash in moonlight by the lake. The subject of his fantasies plays a few rounds of gwent and then vanishes, presumably to go to their rendezvous. Jaskier uses every ounce of willpower not to follow him like a desperate puppy, instead fulfilling his contract to the letter like the grown adult that he is. 

As the crowd begins to thin, he starts in on a few softer pieces, instrumentals that people can still dance to or talk over easily enough. The bride and groom sway together softly in the middle of the room for a while until their families and friends gather around them and lift them both up onto their shoulders to escort them back to their new home. The rest of the crowd claps and follows them out, bringing the celebration to its happy close. 

Telling the members of the local band to come by if they’re ever in Oxenfurt, Jaskier packs up quickly and ducks out of the barn. He walks along the shore of the lake for a while before he spots a small structure, built just a short distance from the water. 

He knows he has the correct cottage because he can see Roach grazing behind it and Geralt lounging on the porch in front of it. He’s sitting on a blanket spread over the floor underneath him, feet already bare. As Jaskier draws closer he spots a few damp footprints across the wood planks of the porch. He can’t help but smile, delighted by the thought of the Witcher kicking off his boots and wading through the clear waters of the lake barefoot while he awaited Jaskier’s arrival. 

Certain that Geralt is well aware of his presence, Jaskier leaves his things on the corner of the porch and drops to his knees in front of him like a penitent. Propping his palms against Geralt’s broad thighs, he pushes forwards and kisses him quickly, a sweet hello. 

“Did you win against those halflings, then?”

Geralt grabs the back of his neck, reels him back in to press their mouths together properly, open-mouthed and filthy. His teeth close around Jaskier’s lower lip as draws back just enough to speak. 

“You make me wait for hours to talk about gwent, buttercup?” Geralt’s fingers scratch into the hair at the nape of his neck, warm and affectionate. 

Sitting back on his heels, Jaskier begins to unravel the sash around Geralt’s waist. 

“Forgive me for attempting some polite conversation before pulling my cock out.”

“We already talked in the barn.” The grin on Geralt’s face is lovely. It creases the corners of his eyes, so much more than the small quirk of lips he tends to grace people with. “You could barely keep your eyes on my face.” 

Groaning, Jaskier pulls the sash off finally and drops his head to mouth at the Witcher’s chest. 

“Because sweet gods, Geralt, your fucking tits.” 

He rubs his jaw against warm muscle and fine hair, all of his skills at wordsmithing vanishing as he finally traces the scar he saw earlier with his tongue. The wolf medallion presses against his cheek, warm and familiar, as he licks down the divide of Geralt’s pectorals. 

Giving up any pretense of patience, Jaskier wraps his hands around Geralt’s thighs and hauls him down onto the floor of the porch fully, balling up the man’s sash into a makeshift pillow and placing it under his head. He pulls Geralt’s legs over his lap, thighs stretched wide around his hips, fitting the man’s ass snugly over his prick. Feeling self-indulgent, he ruts a little, lets Geralt him feel how hard he is just from looking at him and touching him. 

He’s delighted when the Witcher stretches his arms over his hand languidly, signaling that he’s happy to let Jaskier do what he wants to him for the time being. Carefully undoing the fine buttons cinching the robe closed, Jaskier watches it fall open, fabric parting over Geralt’s chest and thighs to reveal the thin chemise and skin-tight trousers underneath. 

Impatient, Jaskier bends down to tongue over one of Geralt’s nipples, wetting the cotton before dragging his teeth over it. When he draws away, it’s peaked underneath his mouth, thin fabric nearly translucent. He pinches at it as he drops his head to give the other nipple the same treatment. By the time he’s done, he can see pink through the wet cloth and his hips jerk without conscious thought, grinding against the Witcher’s ass. 

When he looks up, Geralt is gazing down at him intently, mouth open. Jaskier leans back just far enough to unlace his trousers and pull his cock out, giving it a few tight strokes from base to crown. Geralt pants and starts to shrug out of the robe when Jaskier stops him.

“No, keep it on, pet.” He’s not above begging. “Please, for me.”

Geralt quirks a brow and tugs at the light cotton chemise he’s wearing underneath the robe, the question clear in his eyes.

“I’ll buy you a new one, love, I’m sorry, I just– “ He lets go of Geralt’s cock so that he can grasp the front of the undershirt with both hands, the fabric ripping open down the middle with a concerted jerk of his arms. 

It parts to reveal Geralt’s entire chest, fully on display after a long night of titillation. His nipples are still perked up tight, and Jaskier falls forward with a groan to put his mouth on them again, one of the Witcher’s large hands coming to cradle his skull when he does. Soft strokes of his tongue turn into sucking at Geralt’s nipples like a babe, his face pressed tight against those ample curves. Jaskier feels more than hears the low growl start up in Geralt’s chest when he runs his teeth over those pert buds one after the other. 

He reels back, drunk on his lover's feel and smell, and looks down to see how he’s made Geralt’s chest pink up. Feeling entirely unable to stop touching that rosy skin, he anchors a hand on one of Geralt’s tits, fingers curling into the muscle and fat there, and drops his other hand back to Geralt’s prick. It’s already wet at the tip, foreskin mostly pulled back, but Jaskier lets spit gather in his mouth and then drools down onto it to make the slide even better. 

He doesn’t feel any need to tease, just jerks his fist tight, twists his fingers over the crown every couple of strokes. Geralt has tucked both of his arms under his head, clutching at the sash as his body begins to bow, hips jerking helplessly up as Jaskier pulls him off single-mindedly. He can feel the Witcher’s muscles clench and unclench under the hand still clutching at his chest, the tendons on his neck straining as he throws his head back. 

Geralt moans like he’s been punched when Jaskier cranes his neck down and presses the tip of his tongue into the slit of his cock. Clear spend spills out around it, drips down to help the slide of his fist. 

“Jas – fuck.” Geralt’s voice is hoarse like he’s the one who sang all night. “Fuck, that feels good.” 

The muscles of Jaskier’s back and neck protest as he stretches down further, manages to get his mouth close enough to Geralt’s prick so that he can wrap his tongue relentlessly over and over around the head of it. Geralt’s thighs clamp down tight around his hips, chest heaving under his palm. Jaskier can feel him start to come under his hand, the underside of his cock pulsing against his fingers before the first wet rush hits his mouth. Straightening back up, he watches the rest drip down his fingers, not stopping the gentle pull of his fist until Geralt’s thighs unclench and he falls back onto the ground, boneless. 

He releases the hand on Geralt’s chest as well, watches the way the skin under his fingers goes white and then bright red. Shuffling out from underneath Geralt’s thighs, Jaskier kneels up and unties his breeches, then straddles the Witcher's broad chest. Red fabric bunches underneath his knees, pulling the robe taught across Geralt's thick shoulders. 

Jaskier heaves a breath, cups a hand around Geralt’s jaw and strokes his thumb across his cheek. 

“Alright, darling?” 

Eyes fluttering open, Geralt nods, opening his mouth and catching Jaskier’s thumb in it with a wet sound. A brief whimper escapes Jaskier as he pulls his cock out and begins to furiously wank against Geralt’s chest. He’s close, has been close for what feels like hours, and the sight of Geralt sucking at his thumb with those half-lidded eyes and his reddened chest pushes him closer to the edge. 

“Just look at you.” Jaskier’s breath catches between words, harsh gasps against sound of his palm working at his prick. “So good, Geralt, you’re going to make me come.”

The Witcher just coils his tongue around Jaskier’s thumb and wraps strong hands around his hips, fingers curling into the meat of Jaskier’s ass as he pulls him even tighter against him. Jaskier’s fingers catch on one of those abused nipples as he jerks himself, and his body hunches forward helplessly as he comes violently across Geralt’s magnificent tits. His spend gathers in the crease between the man’s pectorals and Jaskier whines, ruts his cock through it until it’s too much and he falls to the side, chest heaving. 

They both lay there for a bit, the night quiet around them as they catch their breath. Looking over, Jaskier sees pearly white against Geralt’s pink nipples and chafed skin. Gods, he even managed to get some on the medallion, which makes his face heat up. When he reaches over to try and wipe it off the silver wolf’s head, he only manages to smear it across Geralt’s chest, which earns him an odd look from the man before he sits up with a grunt. 

After rolling out his shoulders and stretching out his legs, Geralt stands, letting the robe and ripped chemise fall from his shoulders before stepping out of his trousers. The moon isn’t full, but it’s bright enough to reflect off of the lake and illuminate Geralt in blue-white light. He’s glorious as he steps into the water nude and begins to rinse himself off. 

Jaskier pushes himself up with a groan, struggling to pull off his own clothing, fingers clumsy and mind slow. He follows Geralt into the lake but just sits down in the sandy shallows, lacking the capacity to stand for much longer. He watches as Geralt bathes close by, trying not to feel sour as he watches the man cup handfuls of clear water over his chest to wash away Jaskier’s spend. Splashing some water over himself and then dunking his head under, Jaskier determines that he’s clean enough and staggers back to the porch, collapsing onto the pile of clothing and blankets they left there. 

Geralt return to stand over him shortly thereafter, rivulets of water sliding down his neck and chest that drip on Jaskier as he bends over him. He bullies Jaskier into rolling off of their clothing and then gathers it up, opening to door to the cottage. 

“Coming inside, buttercup?”

Jaskier chuckles, goofy from the long night of performing and great sex. 

“Came on you, not in you.” A master of the seven liberal arts, indeed.

He’s content to fall asleep outside, but after a moment he feels arms under his knees and shoulders as he’s lifted and carried into the small building. It’s spare inside, a bed and a small hearth, a table with a single chair. 

Still holding him, Geralt sits back on the bed and then reclines, arranging Jaskier over his chest. It’s tight. Jaskier’s arm brushes the floor and their feet both jut off the end of the mattress. But he happily nestles back into Geralt’s chest as the man pulls a blanket over them both and drifts off between one breath and the next.

***

The sun is already high when Jaskier wakes, streaming in through the dirty windows of the cottage. He’s alone when he sits up and cracks a huge yawn, head pleasantly fuzzy and body lethargic. After gathering his thoughts and stretching for a moment, he rises and dresses, noting that his clothes from last night have been neatly hung over the back of the cottage’s only chair. Geralt’s pack and clothes are missing, so he assumes the Witcher has already set out for his next contract.

He’s surprised when he walks outside to find Roach still grazing happily next to the cottage. She nickers at him in greeting as he settles on the porch and begins to sort through his pack for an apple.

“Where’s your Witcher gone, my lady?” 

Roach accepts his offering, even lets him scratch her nose a bit as she crunches happily. Not wanting to leave her, he settles down on the porch and pulls out his lute. 

He’s worked through half of a ballad about loyal steeds when Geralt appears, walking from the direction of the village. He’s back in his usual armor, studded leather and plate glinting in the late morning sunlight. 

He steps onto the porch in front of Jaskier, breaking a round loaf of bread in two and offering him half. Smelling how fresh it is from an arm’s length away, Jaskier takes it gratefully and tears into it as Geralt sits down next to him, spreading out a cloth containing some stone fruits and wedges of cheese between them. 

Jaskier snags a peach and bites into it. 

“Where are you headed to next, my dear?” The fruit is ripe to bursting, juice trickling down his wrist and forearm. He chases it with his tongue, gratified to see Geralt’s eyes track the movement before turning to his own meal. 

“Groom’s brother told me about a cousin east of here whose fields are being haunted by strange specters. Thought I’d head over and check it out.”

Jaskier sighs. He was hoping they might be able to travel together for a bit. At Geralt’s questioning look, he shrugs.

“I'm expected to play for a ball at the Vegelbud’s in a few days, then I have to head down to Toussaint for the rest of the summer.” He nibbles around the pit of the peach, working through the calendar of events in his head. “I won’t come back to the north until the harvest festival in Gors Velen.”

Geralt hums, brushing some crumbs off his lap as he polishes off his bread.

“Didn’t spend much time in Temeria last year. Probably enough jobs piled up to justify heading down that way in a few months.” 

Unable to stop himself from smiling, Jaskier leans over and noses at Geralt’s cheek, pressing his lips there, sticky sweet from the peach. “Then hopefully I’ll see you there come fall.” 

Geralt turns his head and catches Jaskier’s mouth in a proper kiss, stubble scratching at his chin, then gets up and goes to one of Roach’s saddlebags. He pulls out the black and gold sash he was wearing last night and returns to where Jaskier is sitting. 

Kneeling down, he begins to wrap the sash around Jaskier’s waist, looping it twice before tying it jauntily off-center, the ends of it trailing over the brunette’ left thigh. It’s a bit ostentatious against his simple yellow doublet, and it certainly makes him look like even more of a dandy. When he glances up, he sees a quietly pleased look on Geralt’s face. 

“Thought it might suit you better.” He runs his hands over the dip of Jaskier’s waist, gentle and possessive, callouses catching on the golden embroidery of the sash. “Looks good on you.”

Heart beating oddly in his chest, Jaskier can’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and pulling him close one last time, cheek smarting as he scrapes it against the rough edges of one of the man’s pauldrons. Not trusting himself to speak, he just brushes his lips against the wolf’s head medallion and pulls back, giving Geralt a watery smile as he pushes himself to standing. 

He clears his throat and shoulders his pack, the weight of his lute familiar across his shoulders. 

“Well then, until next we meet.” Looking over to where Geralt is still crouching, Jaskier does his best to sear this image into his head – his Witcher, smiling softly up at him, sun bright in the sky and the waves of the lake lapping gently behind him. “Take care of yourself.” 

“You as well, buttercup.” 

He doesn't let himself to look back as he curves around the banks of the lake until he reaches the path heading south towards the Vegelbud’s country estate. As he walks, the tails of the sash bounce against his thigh, gilded thread catching the light. Jaskier grins and pulls his lute around to his chest to begin plucking out a song about moonlit lovers and rumpled garments, mind full of lovely memories and sights set on the road ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I get annoyed when I’m told by Triss or Yen to go and buy some fancy tunic to wear to a ball and then get sassed at when the outfit I chose is not good enough? Yes. Do I think this is a symptom of how all of the hetero relationships in W3 are SUPER UNHEALTHY and TOXIC and therefore headcannon that polyamory is widely accepted in the Witcher world. YES. Let me wear my dumb tunics and vampire masks and date all the people 2k20. 
> 
> Thanks to all who read and commented! [My blog](https://thewinterbees.tumblr.com/tagged/fic-reference) has visuals for all outfits discussed


End file.
